The Sultan's Kasbah
by Aulizia
Summary: A missing scene from ‘The Mummy’. My take on what happened the night Jonathan stole the key from Rick. It’s told from our favourite Englishman’s point of view. Re-edited.


**THE SULTAN'S KASBAH**

**(Re-edited)**

**_Disclaimer_**_ - As you know, I do not own the characters or the original storyline, and the name 'The Sultan's Kasbah' is a slight alteration of Max Allan Collins 'the Sultan's Casbah', which he used in his novel adaptation of 'The Mummy'._

**_Summary_**_ - This is a missing scene from 'The Mummy'. It's my take on what happened the night that Jonathan stole the key from Rick. I guess you could say that it's told from our favourite Englishman's point of view._

**_N/B_**_ - Written in UK-English _

**_A/N _-**_I've re-edited this story because I never, ever catch all the spelling/grammar mistakes first time around, lol there are undoubtedly some still here somewhere, and there are always some lines that need re-working.   Enjoy!_

**THE SULTAN'S KASBAH**

**(Re-edited)**

......"Jonathan you stole it from a drunk at the local Kasbah!" Evelyn Carnahan exclaimed hotly.

"Picked his pocket actually, so I don't think it's a very good idea-" began her brother sheepishly, while trying to steer his headstrong sister back towards the exit of Cairo prison. 

"Jonathan, will you stop being so ridiculous?" Was her clipped response as she continued towards one of the cage-like cells. "Now what exactly is this man in prison for?" she asked the prison guard in a most business-like tone.

"Well, this I did not know, but when I heard you were coming I askéd him myself," replied the fat, greasy, decidedly untrustworthy man who passed for the local law enforcement. 

"And what did he say?" prompted Evelyn. 

"He was just looking for a good time!" the prison guard exclaimed jeeringly......

......'A good time? At The Sultan's Kasbah? Wasn't that a contradiction in terms?' wondered Jonathan, from what he remembered no one had had a particularly 'good time' that night......

......The Sultan's Kasbah was possibly the most unrespectable watering hole in Cairo. But a veteran drinker, such as Jonathan Carnahan, paid little heed to the establishment's dubious reputation. All he needed to know was that he'd be served in The Sultan's Kasbah long after everywhere else had politely asked him to leave, or failing that thrown him directly out into the street.

So late one night, or more probably early one morning, the foppish Englishman stumbled into the dark interior of the last pub that would willingly serve him. Jonathan wasn't sure of the exact time, having just lost his watch in a game of poker. His father's watch he remembered with a twinge of guilt, Evy was going to kill him when she found out.

"The usual Carnahan?" asked the bartender gruffly. Jonathan pulled up a stool and nodded. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and scrapped together enough loose change to pay for the drink that arrived in a dirty, chipped glass. 

The doors of the establishment swung open again, and an unkempt, longhaired man stumbling into the Kasbah. Jonathan peered at him through the haze of the bar; he didn't recognise the man, who had the look of a thief or maybe a rogue, perhaps a con-artist? Jonathan couldn't decide, besides it was hard to think straight at this time of day. There was something about him though; something Jonathan couldn't quite put his finger on, something that seemed to place him above the other scum in the Kasbah. The stranger staggered over to the bar and ordered a large, stiff drink.

"And one for this good gentleman here," the man drawled, with a slight American accent, as he pointed to Jonathan.

"I say, that's awfully kind of you," hiccupped Jonathan.

"I'm in an 'awfully kind' mood," replied the American as he impersonated Jonathan's distinct English accent.

"And why is that?"

"I'm celebrating!"

"Celebrating?" repeated Jonathan stupidly. The stranger leant forwards conspiratorially.

"The anniversary of my escape," he whispered. 

"Escape from where?" Jonathan's mouth spoke before his intoxicated mind had considered the downfalls of asking complete strangers from where they had escaped. It ultimately led onto such topics as; what they'd been involved in, in the first place, who was after them now, and, was whoever that happened to be, likely to involve any vague acquaintances they made along the way? 

"Hell," replied the unnamed American darkly, and for a fraction of a second his eyes sobered and a grave, haunted look flashed across the man's handsome face.

"Well, jolly good for you," remarked Jonathan bracingly, downing the drink his newfound friend had brought him and slapping him on the back.

"You're in my seat." The English was spoken with a biting metallic rasp, in an unrecognisable accent. Jonathan, and the American, who'd just bought his drink, turned around slowly. A tall, burly man, with scars criss-crossing his face was sneering down at them, flanked by two equally intimidating figures. 

"Really?" exclaimed Jonathan, in what he hoped was a voice of soothing surprise, "fancy that. So sorry, we'll be moving ri-" he fell silent at the look of derisive disbelief on the American's face.

"We won't be moving," the American corrected calmly.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," grated scar-face, cracking his knuckles ominously.

"Crystal," asserted Jonathan nervously.

"Why are the English so damned obliging? Well, I'm not moving, I was here first!" The American slurred, as he stood up and shrugged off his jacket.

"You think you can take on all three of us, Yank?" jeered one of the men.

"You don't look so tough," argued the American with a cocky grin.

"Step outside, and I'll adjust your vision."

"Aren't you going to help your friend?" inquired the bartender carelessly as he watch the four men leave his bar.

"Friend!" exclaimed Jonathan shrilly, "more of an acquaintance really, hardly that, don't even know his name," he declared hurriedly. "I think I need another drink." 

"And how are you going to pay Carnahan?" demanded the bartender as he cleaned a glass with a filthy rag.

"Ah right, well I'm sure my friend will oblige," he said, reaching into one of the pockets the American's discarded jacket.

"That would be the friend whose name you don't even know?" asked the bartender dryly. However Jonathan was no longer listening.

The American re-entered the Kasbah, knocking the door off its hinges as he sailed through the air. Jonathan would have winced in sympathy but something else had grabbed his attention. As he'd reached for the stranger's wallet his nimble fingers had brushed something cold and metallic. He glanced around warily, checking no one was watching. The bartender had left him to try and break up the fight and the American was glorying in having successfully kneed scar-face in the groin.

Jonathan lifted, what appeared to be a small metal box, out of the pocket. He squinted down at the remarkable treasure and tried to focus his mind. Were those Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics carved into its surface? If so, he knew exactly where to take it. Somewhere behind him it sounded like a chair had just been broken over something a lot less wooden. Jonathan shook his head in an attempt to shake away the fuzziness. He tried to prise the box open, but it was either jammed or locked. 

"It's the law!" The warning was yelled over the din. Jonathan pocketed the puzzle box, glanced at its original owner, who with a sickening crunch had just broken scar-face's nose. With that the Englishman slipped out the back door. 

Straight into the path of two armed guards.

"Officers," Jonathan exclaimed with a start.

"Going somewhere?" one remarked with a jeer. "Won't be running away from something now would you?"

"Just stepping out for a breath of fresh air," replied Jonathan jovially, ignoring the howl of pain omitted from the Kasbah. A huge crash distracted the guards for a second and Jonathan dodged around them and dashed up the street.

"You let him get away!" He heard one roar.

"Shut up and go after him!"

Jonathan Carnahan raced through the dim back streets of Cairo feeling oddly sober, the feeling intensified as a bullet ripped through the air above his head. However, resilient to the last, as he ran towards the museum he remembered that Evy always left one of the windows open for the cats. 

He dove around the side of the museum building, jumped up onto the window ledge and slipped into the building. He sank down onto the cold, dark floor and listened as the guards ran past. A chortle of drunken laughter and relief escape Jonathan as he lifted the odd metallic trinket out of his pocket and toyed with it triumphantly, now all he had to do was find somewhere to wait until morning......

......"This is, this is the man you stole it from?" Evy's stammered question successfully dragged her brother back to the present. He stared at the dimly familiar figure in front of him.

"Yes, exactly, so why don't we just go sniff out a spot of tiffin-"

"Who are you?" demanded the incarcerated American. Relief swept over Jonathan. 'He didn't remember!' the Englishman realised in delight. And he didn't. Well, not at that exact moment.

THE END 


End file.
